Tragedy is in the morning hours when we awake. Tragedy is when we realise that our long aspirations were worlds away from what fate granted us: dysmal cognitive processing, genetic disorders, mood disorders. I suppose let us brew a soup from bad luck… Don’t you think? Let’s call it ‘destiny’s pot of spoiled goods’.

Charles Bukowski famously stated ‘I can make a cup of coffee, or kill myself’. And then, apart from the nihilism trap, there is the gossamer memories of our youth. Oh, how we truly belonged. Lest we forget the bicycle rides to Gran’s flat only a couple of blocks away. The joy of waking up at 12 am ready for our first midnight feast, and the treasure of – – dare I say it – – the far away Future.

How dare we forget our dreams at night?

And when we awake, we are greeted with the golden sun. We soon gather our garments and jackets. We groom ourselves for the day ahead and head off to a variable called work. We turn our heads to the headlines and collapse: 3 men loquaciously head off to space with our desired belongings they reserve a name for: Tax.